


The Ones Who Dream

by thesadchicken



Category: MIKA (Musician) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Inspired by the movie La La Land but not exactly the same, La La Land AU, Lots of fluff and just a touch of angst, M/M, Multi-Chapter Fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-25 14:38:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9824894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: This is the story of Mika, a young singer/songwriter, and Andy, an aspiring movie director, both struggling to make ends meet while pursuing their dreams in a city of stars.





	1. Another Day Of Sun

**Author's Note:**

> For a better reading experience, you can listen to the instrumental songs I added at the beginning of each chapter.  
> I hope you enjoy this story!

> _**[listen here (x)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uOYw4ZkB1p0) ** _
> 
>  

**Another Day of Sun**

**“M** ichael” said the nametag on the barman’s white polo shirt, but he preferred Mika. That was what his mother had always called him, and that was what his family and friends called him too. He pondered this as he poured hot milk into a mug. He grabbed a blueberry muffin from the counter and laid it out as prettily as possible on a yellow-rimmed plate.

_Why does the manager categorically refuse to change the stupid nametag?_ Mika thought while dipping a spoonful of coffee into the fuming mug. It wasn’t going to cost or fortune or waste anyone’s time. It was just a simple request, but it had been denied over and over.

A pink-clad blond came bouncing to the counter. ‘Is that my order…’ she hovered, her eyes searching for his nametag, ‘…Michael?’

Mika winced. ‘Yes, it is. Enjoy,’ he pushed the plate and the mug towards her with a tight smile.

‘I love your accent,’ she cooed at him, taking her coffee and muffin. ‘Michael,’ she added, giggling in girlish glee.

_Stupid fucking nametag_. This exact same scenario had played out a million times before. A bubbly Californian girl would hit on him, call him Michael and then leap into her convertible without leaving him a tip.

But the day was almost over and he’d finally be able to send that bloody CD that had been lying around his apartment for a week. He came to hate the sight of it; it was about time it got sent to a proper record label.

He had his heart set on Dove Records, but he hadn’t found the address yet. The right address, mind you, not the official crap. He’d tried that a thousand times, the whole using-the-official-address thing, but with a little experience he’d discovered that it was a waste of time. You had to locate a manager or an agent or an impresario of some sort – someone related to the record company one way or another – then find their address and send them your demos. Not that this technique had produced any good results either. But yeah. It had to be better than the alternative.

When the afternoon sun faded and waned over the coffee shop’s pastel-colored walls, Mika undid his apron and flung it over the kitchen worktop. He yawned and waved the manager goodbye. He walked out of the coffee shop and stood for a few moments in the warm light of the setting sun. He enjoyed the newfound sense of freedom he felt at the end of each and every day. He savored it, looking up at the name of his workplace written in bold letters on the front of the building: “Last Party”. Mika always thought it could be the title of a very sad song.

When he finally shook himself out of the vapors of his own mind, he looked across the street and caught someone aiming a camera at him. It was a young man, probably Mika’s age, with auburn hair sticking out in spikes around his head. The rest of his face was covered by the camera he was looking through; it was an old model, something Mika had seen his grandmother try to use once or twice. The stranger was wearing a bright blue shirt with the two top buttons missing and a pair of shabby-looking jeans. And he took his time, slowly shifting positions to take another picture, no matter how hard Mika glared at him.

‘The nerve,’ Mika finally exclaimed, holding his clenched fist up and shaking it at the stranger, ‘What the fuck! Stop that!’

The young man lowered his camera and two bright blue eyes stared back at Mika with mild amusement. ‘What are you smiling for?’ Mika frowned, irritated. The stranger did not reply, instead he started walking away at an even pace, taking pictures of the sidewalk and some buildings on his way. Mika watched him turn around the corner and disappear into Los Angeles. ‘Creep,’ he whispered to himself.

*

It had been a week and two days since Mika had sent his demo CD to a manager who worked at a modest record label called Antonia Digital. He wasn’t really expecting a reply anymore. And yet the moment he stepped into his apartment, his roommate Sarah came running through the kitchen door holding an envelope high in the air.

‘Guess what I have,’ she said in her charming Italian accent.

‘No way,’ Mika replied, dropping his keys into his pocket and reaching for the envelope.

‘It came through the post this morning,’ Sarah explained as she watched Mika nervously tear the packet and open the letter. It was printed text, neat and formal. They both peered at it and Sarah read aloud. ‘Dear Mr. Penniman, thank you for submitting your tape of “Happy Ending” to Antonia Digital. We have listened with careful consideration, but feel it is not suitable for us at present.’

‘Great,’ Mika sighed heavily, crumpling the letter, ‘Why am I not surprised?’

‘Wait!’ Sarah cried, ‘There’s something else in the envelope.’

Mika carefully extracted a smaller piece of paper from the now-empty envelope. It was a bit battered and something had been handwritten onto it. He read it out loud. ‘Dear Mr. Penniman, I see great potential in the tape you have sent us. Please join us on Friday evening at the following address to further discuss your future career. Sincerely, Lorne Meyers’.

There was a small moment of utter silence. Then Sarah spoke. ‘Um, what does that mean?’

‘It means that the record company hated me, but this manager fellow is ready to defend me,’ Mika said, a smile sneaking onto his face.

‘You have to convince him you’re worth it,’ Sarah put her hands on her hips thoughtfully. ‘You should take the day off on Friday. I want to make you presentable. You have to look like a star,’ she added, nodding confidently.

‘Whatever you say,’ Mika shrugged, holding the tiny piece of paper between his fingers and grinning at it.

_Finally. Fucking finally_.


	2. Someone in the Crowd

> _**[listen here (x)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nm1lUJZKhZU) ** _

 

**Someone in the Crowd**

**F** riday, 7:22pm.

Mika was late. Naturally. And it wasn’t Sarah’s fault either: she had been right on time, and she had gravely ironed his wrinkled suit, polished his dad’s old cufflinks, styled his disheveled curls and even powdered his nose and applied a touch of concealer over his eye bags. She had wanted to pluck his eyebrows too, but he’d refused.

And yet he was late. As he always was. Sarah reminded him of this for the twentieth time as he slipped on his shoes.

‘I know, I know,’ he sighed, ‘My destiny is to always be late and there’s just nothing I can do about it.’

‘Hurry up instead of complaining,’ Sarah said, smoothening the back of his jacket, ‘And don’t forget: even if it doesn’t work out with that Meyers guy, there are other impresarios in that party. This is the real audition, Mika; this is the fast lane to success. Just find someone, anyone in the crown who is willing to take you in. Charm them. Convince them you’re worth it. Don’t leave the party until someone is interested in you.’

‘Yes,’ Mika nodded confidently, grabbing his keys and checking his reflection in the mirror one last time. ‘Tonight’s the real audition.’

He placed a friendly kiss on Sarah’s cheek, pocketed his phone and keys, and left his small south Los Angeles apartment. Destination: a huge villa in Malibu.

*

The party sucked. Not only did the villa have a swimming pool that was _off-limits_ to non-VIP guests, but the waiter that twirled around the place also refused to serve Mika more than one drink. And boy, did he need a few drinks right now.

He was talking to an aspiring actress – holding her head close to his shoulder, actually, while she cried and whined and complained about her misspent youth and hopeless future. She was drunk and sweaty and she was smoking, but Mika couldn’t leave her alone in this room full of wealthy, indifferent strangers. So he stuck around, wishing he had had a few drinks before coming.

He thought of his brief but revealing interview with Mr. Lorne Meyers, manager and adviser at Antonia Digital. Mika had looked for him for about fifteen minutes, not knowing exactly who to look for. Then Mr. Meyers had found him, and in a heavy New York Bronx accent, he had asked, ‘You Mr. Mika Penniman?’

‘Yes sir,’ Mika had smiled politely.

‘I’m Lorne Meyers,’ the overweight manager had introduced himself, holding his hand out for Mika to shake it, ‘Glad you made it.’

Mika had shaken the hand presented to him. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’

Meyers had stuck a fat cigar between his lips and had offered Mika one. Mika had declined, ‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Good, good,’ Meyers had grinned, ‘that’s very good for a singer. Keep it up, son.’

There had been an awkward silence then as Meyers lit his cigar and took a long drag on it. Smoke had flown up in puffs and Mika had wanted to cough.

‘So,’ the manager had said, ‘let’s cut to the chase, you know what I mean? First of all: I loved your record.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘It’s a good record. You ought to be proud of yourself,’ Meyers had insisted on every word by waving his cigar. He had spoken to Mika as if he was a child. It had made him feel uneasy. ‘But, but,’ Meyers had continued, ‘there are a few things – just tiny, minor things – that need changing, you know what I mean?’

Mika had immediately disliked the sound of that, but he had listened all the same.

‘See,’ the manager had said, ‘you have a wonderful voice, don’t get me wrong, but – but the public wants something else. Something a little less – a little more, well, a little more like Robbie Williams, you know what I mean?’

 _No, I do not know what you mean_ , Mika had wanted to hiss. But he hadn’t. He had just listened while Meyers went on and on about “what the public wants” and “how things are done in the industry” and that “Craig David is really popular right now”. Mika had wanted to ask why he should give a flying fuck about Craig David. But he had just remained silent and listened to the whole thing, until the manager was done talking, and Mika was done listening.

‘Sorry, sir, but I’m not a copycat, and I don’t write songs that sound like Robbie Williams or Craig David or anyone else for that matter,’ he had said, and then he’d walked away, and now here he was with a young woman crying on his shoulder.

Yeah, the party sucked. And just when he thought that it couldn’t suck any more than it already did, a camera’s flash blinded him, and he had to cover his eyes with both hands. The aspiring actress who had been sobbing onto his jacket pushed herself off of him and left, screaming about how the light blinded her. When his vision cleared, Mika blinked his eyes open and saw a ginger man wearing a beige suit and holding a camera.

‘I’m so sorry,’ the man said in a deep velvety voice.

‘You’re the asshole from the other day,’ Mika mumbled, recognizing the scoundrel, ‘It’s you. The guy with the camera. In front of “Last Party”.’

‘I’m really sorry, I must’ve blinded you there,’ the man said, as if Mika hadn’t spoken at all.

‘Yes you did,’ Mika snapped, ‘why the fuck were you taking my picture anyway? What is wrong with you?’

The man froze. His face took an amused expression – the same one Mika had seen on him the other day. ‘My name is Andy Dermanis, I work here. I’m the photographer.’

‘Oh,’ Mika grimaced, ‘the photographer, right.’ He felt a little sheepish for a second, then he remembered his previous indignation. ‘That still doesn’t explain why you were spying on me the other day in front of “Last Party”.’

‘I wasn’t spying on you,’ Andy laughed, as if the whole thing were a joke.

‘So it’s a hobby of yours to take pictures of unwilling strangers?’

‘You could say that.’

‘In that case: fuck you. That’s rude and childish.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the redhead bit his lower lip. Mika waited a few seconds for something else to follow – a snide remark, perhaps, or a sarcastic comment. But no, the stranger seemed sincere. Mika blinked again. That was not the reaction he had been anticipating.

‘I take it you will want your picture back, then?’ Andy added, seriously.

‘Err,’ Mika hesitated, taken aback by the sudden shift in the stranger’s attitude, ‘no, that’s alright. You can keep it, sell it to the highest bidder or do whatever the fuck you wanted to do with it in the first place.’

Andy laughed again, a deep, raucous laugh. ‘Right,’ he smiled, tapping his fingers against his old-fashioned camera.

‘Right,’ Mika echoed, pulling on the bottom of his jacket uncomfortably.

They stood there for a while, staring at each other with growing curiosity. The fellow was decidedly very weird, but at least he looked sane. Well, as sane as a man roaming around L.A taking pictures of strangers could be.

‘I’m done here,’ Andy said suddenly, making Mika start with surprise, ‘Done with work, I mean.’

‘I’d better call it a night as well,’ Mika scratched the back of his neck.

‘Should I walk you to your car?’ Andy asked politely.

‘I, err, I don’t have a car, actually.’

‘I’ll give you a ride then,’ the ginger seemed delighted by this.

‘No, no it’s alright, I’ll just call a cab,’ Mika shook his head.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know how much they charge you when it’s this late and they know you’re desperate?’

‘You’re rather persistent, aren’t you?’ Mika frowned, although he was honestly quite amused.

‘It’s one of my finer qualities,’ Andy said, holding his head high in fake pride. Mika couldn’t help but laugh.

‘Alright then,’ he shrugged, ‘this party sucks anyway.’

‘It does, doesn’t it?’


End file.
